


Star Collector

by randyscousegit



Category: The Monkees (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, Jolenz, M/M, Stargazing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-07-06
Updated: 2019-07-06
Packaged: 2020-06-23 16:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,984
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19705195
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/randyscousegit/pseuds/randyscousegit
Summary: At night, the beach became a different plane of existence.





	Star Collector

**Author's Note:**

> entirely tv show based  
> thank u llynn for beta-ing for me

At night, the beach became a different plane of existence. By day, it was baking hot, and the air filled with salt, like a kitchen manned by an over-enthusiastic chef. You might find a stranger cooking on a rock, sizzling themselves to a man-sized crisp. Sometimes, you may even find a princess, or a horse, or something. You know, something to really kickstart the plot. The beat of the sun simply attracted a whole hoard of dancers, tracing patterns in the sand and spinning neatly in, and out, of the Monkees' lives. 

Night time on the beach was a different reality. Pale yellows and blues were replaced by deep indigo and silver. The moon shone down a cool spotlight onto the sand, and the stars cut out tiny holes in the fabric of the sky, peering down at the crashing waves below. 

Micky liked the beach at all times of the day. It was nice to jump between rocks in the warm sunlight and laugh at everything around him - because, damn, it was all so funny in the golden wash of noon. But he also enjoyed the cool serenity of the midnight shore. Watching everything move a little quieter as it bathed in silver light. Here, he could sit alone and simply exist. Not that he didn't exist elsewhere, because of course he did. But in the same way the beach existed differently at night, his being shifted. He had no responsibilities here. He could just watch time pass, while time did the same to him, observing him growing older. An equal exchange. 

Some nights he had a reason for coming out here. A girl he was hung up on. Or dwindling faith in the success of the band. He'd walk out under the moon and perform his troubles for the stars, his celestial audience. After that, he'd take requests from the crowd, singing a song or other that the band might be working on. Then he'd stay a while longer. He'd stay until his lungs were clear and his brain was too. Only then would he amble back up to the Pad and try to go to bed without disturbing anyone. 

Other nights, such as this, he simply wanted to be on the beach. Hidden under the cover of darkness. No singing or acting this time. Just quiet. The water kissing the sand, and the occasional rumble of a car driving past somewhere far behind him. That's where it all was, for a moment at least - behind him. 

Now, he was sitting before the ocean, legs crossed, holding his knees with rough musician hands. He gazed out at the horizon, trying to determine where the dark blue of the sea met the deep purple sky. They seemed to mix and blur, until it looked like a never-ending blanket of colour. Perhaps it was. The world wrapped up in darkness for a few hours, before morning broke the spell. Anything was possible out here. 

He shouldn't have been surprised, then, when he turned to find Davy stood over him. All 5-foot-3 of him, features cut up dangerously by the moonlight. Micky looked up at him, observing the tilt of his nose, the curve of his jaw, the set of his soft lips where they were brushed by silver. Davy wasn't returning his stare. He was seemingly searching for the same point on the horizon that Micky had been contemplating moments earlier. Neither of them said anything. Davy gazed out at the world, and Micky gazed up at Davy.

"You come out here a lot," Davy finally broke the silence, still not looking at Micky. His tone was unreadable. 

It caught Micky off-guard. He didn't think anyone else knew about his trips down to sandy salvation. They were his secret. His space. A place he could hide, even when no one was seeking him. 

But it seemed Davy knew anyway, in the way that he sometimes just knew things. 

"Yeah," was all Micky responded - all he  _ could  _ respond - his throat a little dry. He wanted to ask how Davy knew, ask why he was here, but the words wouldn't come. He struggled for something else to say, anything at all. "Was that a pick-up line? Are you hitting on me?" he joked, relieved when Davy, at last, looked down at him with a white-toothed grin. 

"Is it working?" he asked, sitting down next to Micky with a light thud. 

"Oh, a lady never tells!" Micky put on a high-pitched, nasal voice, bringing one hand up to his cheek in a mock fluster. 

Beside him, Davy chuckled. "If you  _ were _ a lady, I imagine we'd be in quite a different position right now," - and Micky felt a heartstring  _ ping _ . It twinged, it skipped, it- ... It- 

"Good thing I'm not a lady then," he said quickly, in his normal voice. 

The two fell back into quiet again. Davy used an index finger to draw swirls in the sand, while Micky used all of his brain to try and comprehend what had just taken place in his chest. It wasn't the first time it had happened. 

He remembered once looking up from his toast, across the breakfast table at Davy, their eyes meeting for two beats longer than usual. An elastic band inside his chest had snapped and there went his heart, beating fast and loud to the rhythm of a song Micky was yet to write. 

Another time, Davy had taken hold of his arm, a normal occurrence, and had started tracing little circles with his finger tips, similar to the ones he was now drawing in the sand. His warm hands on Micky's bare arm, electrifying and terrifying and-  _ twang!  _ There it went again. A pounding so furious that Micky worried his ribs would break. He'd had to pull away, leave the room, hold his head in his hands until the prisoner in his chest gave up on its escape plan. 

He was starting to think he had a medical condition. 

But he wasn't stupid, as much as he wished he was right now. He had easily connected the dots, and they had formed an image he did not like the look of. Now he kept the picture locked away, under piles of wafer thin distractions, only taking it out to look at before the black sky. And never, ever, in front of Davy.

See, it was a migraine-inducing problem. A little over 5 foot tall. Not one easy to avoid either. But ignoring the issue was the next best thing, Micky reckoned. If left to its own devices, it could sort itself out. Any creases ironed out. All knots untied. Plain sailing ahead. 

However, a ship with no captain can do nothing but crash. And Micky was certainly crashing - or crushing. Crush did seem an appropriate word, considering how short Davy was. Any amorous attempt by Micky would surely end in, well, Davy's end. 

It wasn't a feeling to dwell on. At least, not in the light of day. Here, before the stars, it seemed unblemished, raw. Micky turned the idea over in his hands like an old penny. This was a different plane of reality. Anything could happen, couldn't it?

He lay down flat on his back, arms behind his head. An open book. A rudderless ship. 

"What're you doing?" Davy frowned at him quizzically. 

"Star gazin'," Micky answered, "C'mon." He used one hand to gently pull at Davy's shoulder, easing him down until the pair lay horizontal beside each other. 

Above them, the sky was extraordinarily clear. Each star twinkled brightly. Waving at them. Blinking and winking. 

"Groovy," Davy breathed. 

Micky began to explain everything he knew about the stars - which wasn't a lot. Mapping out fake constellations and cracking jokes. Every time Davy laughed at his 'scientist' voice, at the "cereal constellation", at Micky's uncontrollable sniggering, the twinge would twang again. This time Micky decided not to feel guilty. 

"Which is your favourite?" he asked Davy suddenly. 

"My favourite what?" Davy giggled, still tickled by Micky's last joke. 

"Your favourite star."

"Oh," Davy paused, "Definitely Ringo," he said at last, earning a light smack on the chest from Micky. 

"C'm _ on _ , really! What's your favourite star? Show me!" Micky persisted. 

Davy pointed upwards. "That one I s'pose." 

Micky shuffled closer to follow the line of his gaze. His head was now touching Davy's, shoulder pressed against shoulder. The proximity was dizzying. Despite lying flat on the ground, Micky felt this sense of vertigo. A blood rush height. A battle between rationality and sentimentality rattled through him as he felt Davy's warmth bleed into him. Nothing else mattered. 

His eyes traced the inside of Davy's arm, leading him beyond Davy's pointer finger to the location of the star. There was nothing noticeably different about the star, except there was. It was Davy's favourite, and that made it glow a little different. Perhaps that was something only Micky would notice. 

"That one?" he asked, extending his arm alongside Davy's to point at the tiny pinpoint of light. Their wrists brushed and Micky could have sworn he saw sparks. 

"Yeah, that one," Davy confirmed, his voice quiet, "Why?" 

Micky didn't answer. Instead he nudged Davy's arm away, until it lay back to rest at Davy's side. Suddenly, Micky's hand closed into a fist above them, as if he were grabbing something. 

"Damnit, I missed," he grumbled. He tried again, grasping at thin air. "Okay, I got it." 

"Got what?" Davy frowned at him, as he lowered his clenched hand between them. 

"Your star," was all he said. 

Even without looking, he knew Davy's face had split into a grin. 

"My star?" he laughed. 

"Your star," Micky repeated, turning to look back at Davy. 

That was a mistake. The ghost of laughter still pinched Davy's cheeks and an incredulous look had glazed over his eyes. Moonlight danced over his right cheekbone, carving out his jawbone and smoothing out any lines. He was pristine. A bone white marble statue. And Micky knew this was  _ it _ . There was no coming back from this. Once more, the drummer boy behind his breast bone began to play double time, and as Micky's breath hitched in his throat, well, it was all he could do to tear his eyes away and stare back at his fist. Count his knuckles and ignore the way Davy's eyes were burning into his cheek. 

See, some things slipped between realities. Micky existed on the beach both at night and during the day, and with him, he brought his problems. They travelled as a pack, inseparable until the end. His feelings for Davy, however much he tried to file them away during the day, were present on every iteration of the beach. When he woke up and poured a coffee, he had feelings for Davy; and when he left the beach to go to bed, he had feelings for Davy too. 

So  _ this, _ whatever  _ this _ was, would still be there in the morning. This aching, pounding, heartache would only get worse. Goddamn, Micky was in deep shit. 

"You can have it if you want," he said at last, "the star, I mean." 

Davy's eyes slid from Micky's face to his hand. To the "star" that Micky had caught for him. 

"Go on then." 

Slowly, Micky opened his palm. It was empty, of course, except it wasn't. There was  _ something _ there, he swore it. Davy reached out his own hand now, as if to take the "star". But instead of grabbing at the warm air resting on Micky's palm, he slid his own hand into that space. Holding his hand.

Micky froze, muscles taut. 

_ Twinge! Twang! Ping! Snap! Boom, baboom, baboom! _

Well, he ran out of words to describe the fireworks in his chest. The waves of blood rushing his head, spinning round and round like a carousel. 

And the beach was still silent, as if unaware of everything happening inside Micky's body. Well, there was no reason the world should start shaking, but, God, Micky wished it would. At least then Davy would release his hand and let him breathe a moment. At least then Davy would know what he was doing to him. 

"Which is your favourite?" Davy asked, as if to prove how unaware he was of Micky's internal plight. 

"Huh?" 

"Your favourite star, man," Davy smiled. 

Micky's tongue felt fat and heavy in his mouth. To tell the truth, his favourite stars were the ones that flashed in Davy's eyes when he fell in love. They twinkled and twirled and Micky always felt sick with jealousy. He longed for the day that those stars would shine for him. But he could not tell Davy this. They were not his stars to collect.

The words seemed to trip over his lips as he said thickly, "l don't have one." 

Davy paused for a beat longer than usual, breathing in deeply. "What about this one?" he murmured, holding up their joined hands. 

If it wasn't  _ it _ before,  _ this  _ was definitely it. 

-

Once, Micky had been on the beach when a storm hit. They all had, in fact, all four of them running and laughing and getting sand in their hair. Micky had been mid-cartwheel when a fat raindrop had landed on his chin. As he righted himself, standing up tall, another smattering of water splashed his shoulders. Followed by more, giving way to a heavy rhythmic stream of droplets pouring from the clouds that had not been there mere moments ago. 

"Ah, it's raining," Peter grumbled, picking his jacket off the floor and dusting off the sand. 

"Maybe we should-" Mike began, but he was interrupted by a loud clap of thunder. 

He took this as a sign to go back indoors, jogging towards the Pad with his hands over his hat, Davy and Peter in tow. 

But Micky didn't move. Micky stood still, face turned to the rain, watching as the sky changed so quickly from blue to grey. It was odd to see it happen this fast. He was used to watching and waiting inside, letting the glass of his window turn orange and pink, before settling into a darker purple. This, on the other hand, took moments. This was like the joining of two realities. The point where the day met the night. 

Here he stood at the centre of it. Witness to nature's fickle temper. 

For a while, he stayed there. Just watching the clouds racing, and the lightning flashing, and the waves crashing. It was exhilarating. It was breathtaking. It made the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stand up straight - reporting for duty, general. This was living. 

This was  _ it _ .

-

My God, he was alive! This was the moment. Maybe he'd been hit by lighting or something because his blood was fizzing with electricity.

A ship can only go without a captain for so long before someone else takes charge. It's desperation. It's human nature, finding a way to survive. Now Micky's first mate was taking control of the wheel, and setting a course for Davy-land. And who was Micky to argue with the new captain? 

He sat up, suddenly, pulling Davy up with him.

"Why are you here?" he asked, fiercely. Something was blazing in his eyes, something Davy had never seen before. At least, not in Micky's eyes. 

"What d'you mean?" he frowned, and even the crease between his eyebrows was driving Micky insane. 

"You said I come down here a lot, but you've never joined me before, so why now?" he was talking fast, stumbling through his words but it seemed the message came across. 

"Well, I-" 

It was Davy's turn to fumble, withdrawing his hand from Micky's and fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt. His eyes found a point a few centimetres to the side of Micky's head and he made a point of staring at it, instead of at Micky. 

"I don't know really," he admitted, dropping his gaze to his own hands.

Micky opened his mouth to say something but Davy continued. 

"I've wanted to before but, well, I've always been scared. Never knew if you just wanted to be alone or not."

"What was different this time?" 

"I just… I felt different. It felt like the right time. But maybe it wasn't. Maybe I shouldn't have-" 

"Davy," Micky interjected. He took hold of Davy's hands, and their eyes met. 

_ Land ho!  _ called the captain. 

"Davy," he whispered again, before leaning forwards and pressing their lips together in a chaste kiss. 

_ Crash!  _

Davy's lips were as soft as they looked.

_ Bang! _

Micky pushed forwards a little more.

_ Ping!  _

Davy pushed back.

_ Boom!  _

He was kissing Davy Jones.

_ Boom!  _

_ He was kissing Davy Jones.  _

_ Boomboomboomboom- _

"Micky-" Davy pulled away, "what're you doing?" 

Their eyes met, silver glazed with matching wide-blown pupils.

Micky swallowed. "I thought it was pretty obvious what I was doing." 

Davy nodded. "Just checking," he said, breathless. 

And then they dove in again. Mouths moving together, hands tangling in each other's hair, gripping at each other's faces, a push and pull. A dance, a performance for the stars as they smiled down. 

If this would matter in the morning, well, Micky could not say. He would carry it with him, of course, through the veil between each plane. But he did not know if Davy would bring it with him. Maybe it was something for them to leave on the beach, under the moon. 

Micky thought to the future. To the plethora of potential nights ahead, picking out a star each night until the tiny lights lined their pockets. A pair of star collectors, lost in each other's sparkling eyes.

If a passerby were to look at them, they would struggle to find the point where Micky ended and Davy began. They seemed to mix and blur into one. Perhaps they were. Anything was possible out here, right?

**Author's Note:**

> thank you for reading lmao  
> idk how good this rlly was but i hope u enjoyed it uwu  
> hmu on stxrcollector.tumblr.com


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